


Battle Born

by Vague_Shadows



Series: The Family Business [5]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 66 seals, Angst, BAMF!Stiles, Crossover, Future!fic Teen Wolf, Gen, Magic!Stiles, Season 4 Supernatural, Teen Wolf/Supernatural crossover, bamf!Lydia, magic!Lydia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-06 10:33:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vague_Shadows/pseuds/Vague_Shadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why me?" Stiles asks.</p><p>"Your location provides a convenient resource," Castiel replies. "The enemy has already taken precautions that make direct angelic intervention impossible; and Dean Winchester seems to believe you may stand some slim chance of preserving this seal."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song "Flesh and Bone" by The Killers. One of many songs on the playlist I have on repeat as I work on this bit.
> 
> Timeline reference: This is Season 4 for the Winchesters and senior year for the teens in the Hale Pack.
> 
> Thanks as always for reading!

Stiles and Derek are out on the preserve; the night is so clear he can pick out every constellation. Somewhere nearby the others have built a bonfire.  He should really get over there before they run out of s’mores supplies, but he’s so damn comfortable right here with Derek he can’t bring himself to move just yet—until the silhouette of some stranger appears out of thin air no more than two feet away.

“Hello, Stiles. I need to speak with you.”

He jumps to his feet as the night around him turns instantly to day. Derek and the rest of the pack are nowhere in sight, and Stiles itches to send the burst of power that would send this stranger flying back from him.  He refrains in favor of not showing his hand just yet.  The man doesn’t look like any hunter or monster he’s ever met—dressed in a suit and a trench coat—but he damn sure isn’t just a passerby. 

“How the fuck did you do that?! Who are you? _What_ are you?”  Stiles demands.

“You were dreaming,” the man replies.  “I chose to converse here because I thought it unwise to risk startling you in the physical world where you might use your powers in defense and harm yourself.”

“Harm _myself_?” he repeats, huffing out a laugh.  “Someone’s pretty damn cocky.”

“I’m confident that my celestial powers can easily overcome your mere skills as a wielder, yes.”

“Your celestial powers? Look, who the fuck are you? What’re you—”

“My name is Castiel; I’m an angel of the Lord.”

“An angel of the Lord?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, of course you are, and I’m the Easter Bunny.”

“The Easter Bunny is a mythical entity born of the retention of pagan symbology as they transitioned to the Christian faith. No such creature exists. You are the Wielder of Beacon Hills, not the Easter Bunny.  I have no time for games or ineffective attempts at deception.  I’m here to offer you an opportunity to serve in the war against hell.”

“The war against hell?”

“The demons have begun to break the 66 seals that will allow Lucifer to rise.”

“66 seals to allow Lucifer to rise? What, you mean like Revelations? The apocalypse?”

“Precisely.”

“And you’re here because you want me to help fight that?”

“Yes.”

“Why me?”

“Your location provides a convenient resource; the enemy has already taken precautions that make direct angelic intervention impossible; and Dean Winchester seems to believe you may stand some slim chance of preserving this seal.”

“Dean Winchester’s dead, and even if he wasn’t, I’m pretty sure there’s no way in hell he’d recommend me for anything.”

“Dean Winchester has been raised from perdition to serve in this war.  He—”

“Then why aren’t you asking _him_ to—”

"Because he has other seals to tend to.  This seal must not break, and it falls to you to lead the defense of it.”

“And if I don’t?”

“It should be enough for you to know that you have been honored with a request to participate in a divine plan to conquer hell,” Castiel replies, clearly annoyed.  “As a human, you, of course, look only to immediate consequences.  Should this seal break, an evil you cannot imagine will rise here in Beacon Hills and crush everything and everyone that you care about.  You have _some_ chance if you stand for us and attempt to prevent it; if you stand by and wait until the seal is broken to fight, you will all surely die.”

“Let’s say I believe you,” Stiles says. “and this isn’t some off-the-wall dream my brain conjured up because apparently I can’t make it more than six months between near-death experiences.  Let’s say I do ‘serve in this war’ or whatever and try to save this seal.  What _exactly_ are you asking me to do?”

             


	2. Chapter 1

 

“Based on the coordinates Castiel gave us, this is it,” Danny tells them, pointing to the map image on the computer screen.

“Switch it to satellite view,” Derek requests.

It doesn’t look like much.  From what the satellite shows it seems to be an old cemetery— _of course it’s some creepy-ass shit like a cemetery_ —in a clearing that’s maybe the space of an acre.  Everything else looks to be woods, so there’s at least some cover; if they’re lucky, they can get enough range from Stiles’ and Lydia’s abilities to launch the initial attack from the woodline. It’s seventeen miles from the pack house on the corner of the preserve with no access roads.  Castiel wasn’t kidding when he said the pack was conveniently located, but it’s also a site far enough from civilization that there shouldn’t be any civilian interference.  It’s a small relief amidst the rest of the insanity.

 “Okay, we’ve got our site, let’s get out there and figure out what we can do with it,” Derek says.  “Double check all the supplies. We leave in ten.”

“Any word from the hunters?” Scott asks.

“The Winchesters won’t make it in time,” Stiles replies, “and the Argents think we’ve lost out fucking minds.”

 _Can’t blame them,_ Derek thinks. _If Chris argent called me to say an angel invaded his dream, teleported him to the den of the pack house, and proceeded to give basic battle instructions to help avert the apocalypse, I’d probably write him off as crazy too.  I wish it was that simple._

_But nothing’s ever simple._

***************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Hey, Bobby, what’s up?” Sam asks when he answers the phone.

“Tell me you’re near California.”

“We’re headed out of Minnesota.  There’s a haunting just over the Wisconsin line we thought we’d look into.  You know, take a simple salt ‘n’ burn after— _after we found out we had a half-brother who turned out to be a ghoul just wearing the face of our recently murdered half-brother and  it nearly killed us—_ just, to you know, clear our heads.  Why? What’s in California?”

“Castiel went to see Stiles.”

“Stiles?”

"Wait, Stiles as in Mowgli?” Dean asks from the driver’s seat.  “What’s—”

“Shut up,” Sam mutters to his brother. “What did Cas want with Stiles?”

“Here, I can play the message, it’s on my other phone,” Bobby offers. 

Sam puts the phone to speaker.

"Hey, Bobby, it’s Stiles. I—uh—I was kind of hoping you’d answer this and tell me there’s no such things as angels, which is a weird thing to wish for, I know. See the thing is there’s this angel, Castiel, who seems to know you guys, and he’s here, in Beacon Hills. Well, he _was_ here; he’s gone now.  Guess you skipped that chapter in the crash course I got last summer? Fucking _angels,_ man? Trying to stop the _apocalypse_? Just when I think life won’t get any weirder…”

_Hate to break it to you, kid, but this life always gets weirder.  Never assume you’ve seen everything._

“Anyways,” the voicemail continues, “apparently we’ve been drafted to fight the war against hell, whatever that means. There’s a seal—ya know, one of the 66 they’re trying to break to open up hell—a weapon of heaven, they call it the horn of Joshua—you remember the one that supposedly leveled the city of Jericho? –that was stolen and then hidden someplace just outside Beacon Hills; it seems to function, more or less, as a holy nuke. If they get it, they could take out half the state in one shot _and_ break a seal towards the apocalyptic countdown which is why we’re supposed to stop them it.

Castiel says we’re fending off a demon but not like the one that possessed me; this is some big, bad, scary-ass motherfucker.  Only the one that stole and concealed the horn in the first place can come and break the magic and warding hiding it now, so it’s something powerful enough to steal shit from angels—not a comforting thought, right?—and since it stole it from angels, the warding also apparently keeps angels away, which is why they need us to go in and play soldier for them.” 

_Okay, so it’s just one demon. Maybe they actually so stand a chance?_

“The release spell has to begin and end with the Sun on the Spring Equinox.  If we can stall the starting of it, we can prevent them getting the horn According to the angel, we _may_ be able to keep the demon at bay until the dawn of the Spring Equinox.  We’re gonna give it one hell of a fight at least.

I know there’s not a lot of time. I don’t even know if you’re going to get this message in time, but if you can give us anything—advice even if you can’t get here—we’d appreciate the help.  We can hold our own, but, if this thing’s got an angel scared…” Stiles doesn’t finish the sentence; he just sighs heavily with a weariness Sam doesn’t like. “We could just use all the help we can get.  Give me a call back if you do get this in time.”

As soon as the voicemail ends, Sam points out, “The dawn of the Spring Equinox is only—”

“Eighteen hours, twelve minutes, and some odd seconds from now,” Bobby finishes solemnly. 

“Well, shit.”

“Look, Rufus called in a favor; so I’m with him. We’re after a shifter in Mississippi.  I can’t bail in the middle of—”

“We’ll get there as fast as we can. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Dean, you best try Castiel. See if you can understand why the hell these angels decided to throw this at the pack.”

“Ruby and Cas both seem to think our side’s losing,” Sam replies.

“I guess they’re getting desperate,” Dean supposes.

“Well, I gotta go. Call the kid, would ya? He knows the basics. I think they stand a good chance, but maybe you can give him some pointers I can’t? At least he’ll know we’re not ignoring him.”

“Yeah, sure thing.”

"You boys take care of yourselves.”

“You too, Bobby.”

“Beacon Hills, here we come,” Dean says running a hand down his face tiredly and pulling off the next exit so they can change direction.  “This is gonna be one hell of a ride.  You better nap if you can.   If we take shifts driving, maybe we’ll make it in time.”

“You really think we can?”

“I think we can try.”

 

***********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Every inch of this acre is defended with some kind of salt line, mountain ash, ward, or holy water—if not all four—and Derek still doesn’t feel a hell of a lot better than when they arrived.  The plan is to keep to the trees if possible. Stiles will fight from the north side of the clearing, and Derek’s going to be beside him because he can’t quite bring himself to trust anyone else with the job of covering Stiles while he focuses on his magic.  On the south side, Lydia will work with Jackson at her side. Scott takes the east and Isaac covers the west with Danny. 

There’s a solemnity hanging in the air that Derek’s never felt from his pack before.   He was already captured by the time they planned their attack on the alphas.  Everything since then’s been a danger they didn’t see coming and just reacted to based on training and instinct.  He’s grateful for what little time they have to plan, but the anticipation is excruciating.  He checks his watch to see they’ve got a little over two hours until sunrise.  They’ve done all they can with the defenses. All that’s left is to stay alert and wait.

Derek’s the first to pick up the sounds of something crashing through the woods, but his immediate shift to beta form has the others tensing with him. 

“There,” Lydia calls, pointing to the east. “Whatever it is, I’ve got it. It’s controllable.”

“Just me!” the familiar voice of the sheriff calls through the woods.  “Nice try on having Lydia mind-control me into staying home,” he adds, “but it looks like her distance control could still use a little work.”

“Scott, holy water test and walk him the rest of the way,” Derek instructs. 

Scott nods and grabs a water balloon filled with holy water from one of several buckets strategically placed around the field.   They all hear the splash of the balloon bursting and the sheriff’s slightly annoyed sigh.

“Satisfied?” he asks.  “You could’ve just asked to see my anti-possession charm.”

“Sorry,” Scott says.  “Can’t be too careful?”

Derek catches the relief on Stiles face when it’s confirmed his father isn’t the unwitting vessel of this demon, but it’s momentary at best.  His eyes meet Derek’s, anguished and afraid.

“He wasn’t supposed to be in the middle of this,” Stiles says miserably.  “He’s not—he’ll get—it’s too dangerous for him to stay.”

“If she sends him back home, he’ll come back. You know he will, and next time it could be him walking into the middle of a battle.”

“So I’m supposed to let him stay and—”

“Stiles!” his dad calls from across the field.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Derek replies. “Try and talk to him if you think it’ll do any good.”

_Maybe it’s his choice to make if he doesn’t want to sit home and wait to hear if we live or die. It’s the same choice the rest of you humans used to make all the time before you were pack._

“Dad, go home,” Stiles begs as he walks to meet his father.  “ _Please._ ”

“Not gonna happen.”

“You could just—”

“ _No_ , Stiles.  Whatever happens, I told you you’re not doing this on your own.”

“I’m not on my own; the whole pack is here to back me up.”

“Well, if you’re so prepared to take it on, no safer place for me to be.”

“I’ve got my magic. You’ve got—”

“Salt rounds, awesome holy water balloons, all these wards, a give ‘em hell attitude, and a son and pack to protect,” his father interjects.  “I’m not leaving here without you, so I’ll fight with you. That’s all there is to it.”

Stile wants to argue. Derek can see the worry morphing into frustration and anger on his face.  He can also feel the electricity in the air—the feeling that grows just before a storm—that they’ve all learned signals that Stiles is beginning to lose control.  Derek understands why better than anyone else here.

_Go home, sheriff. He’s got one parent’s death on his conscious—even though it wasn’t his fault—so please don’t make it two.  Just go home. Go to the hospital to wait with Melissa.  Just get the fuck away from here._

“You don’t have time to fight with your dad, Stiles,” Isaac says quietly.  “You gotta keep your focus.”

“Come on, sheriff,” Scott says.  “I could use and extra over here on my side.”

“Be happy to, Scott,” the sheriff says, moving to walk away from his son.

Stiles grabs his father’s arm and pulls his father into a hug.

“You know I love you, dad,” he says, voice thick with emotion, “but, God, I hate you for this.” 

“Love you too,” his dad replies, smiling and patting Stiles on the back.  “Come on.  It’ll be fine.  I’ve got faith in you, kiddo.”

Stile releases his dad and returns to Derek.  He brushes quickly at the tear that’s fallen from one eye.  Derek would give anything to promise Stiles that his father will be fine, but Derek knows better than to make those kinds of promises, especially when not even an angel _really_ believes they can win.  Instead he reaches out a hand to grab Stiles’.

“If anything happens to him, I’m going to lose my fucking mind,” Stiles mutters.  “If anything happens to any of you—I can’t—I’ll—”

“We’re not the same pack that took on the alphas two years ago,” Derek reminds. “We’re powerful now.”

"But are we powerful _enough_?”

Derek doesn’t reply.  He’s scared of the lie that might be in the answer.

 

******************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Sam’s dozing in the passenger seat.  They’re flying down a highway somewhere in southern Wyoming now.  Taking shifts and pushing the impala to her limit’s helped them make good time, but it doesn’t look like it’ll be enough to beat the clock.  The keep driving anyway because who knows how long the battle might last or what kind of help the pack might need afterward.

“Come on, Cas,” Dean whispers fervently. 

He must think Sam’s fully asleep or else that Sam can’t hear him over the sound of the radio.  Dean’s never prayed in front of his little brother.

“I’ve been calling since the South Dakota line.  Would it kill you to at least answer back?  At least come get me and Sam and zap us in to help!”

There’s no answer; Dean just pushes the throttle harder, cranks the radio up, and they speed on toward whatever waits for them in California. 

 

***********************************************************************************************************************************************

 

It’s exactly one hour before sunrise when they hear the approach.

“I thought he said _one_ demon,” Derek mutters because the sounds are coming from all sides.

“He did,” Stiles replies worriedly; his hand finds Derek’s and squeezes. “Whatever’s coming, whatever this is, whatever happens—”

Derek silences Stiles’ almost-goodbye declaration with a kiss. It’s a horrible tactical choice, but he can’t help it. He can’t handle hearing this, not right now. The idea that he might lose Stiles today—through Stiles’ death or his own—is more than enough to evaporate his control if he dwells on it at all.  When Derek pulls away from the kiss, he forces a grin. 

“Just don’t die,” he says, hoping the ‘ _because I can’t lose you. I love you too much’_ is implied.

“You either,” Stiles replies, forcing a smile of his own.

They turn their attention back to the woods.  A few moments later, silhouettes begin to slowly appear between the trees.  The first shapes he can make out are humans—poor bastards unlucky enough to be puppets for these demons—walking in step with one another.  He realizes just a second later that it’s not just humans; it seems every living creature in this forest is gathering in a circle around this place—bears, mountain lions, even foxes—all in step with the humans. 

As one, they come to a halt outside the farthest ring of salt. 

"This is the best the angels can send to protect their precious weapon?”

The question emanates identically from every creature in the circle, even the beasts. 

“What the fuck?” Jackson mumbles.

The creatures chuckle, a low menacing sound that sends chills down Derek’s spine. 

“Call us Legion,” they say, grinning boastfully.  “For we are many.”

Derek fights desperately at the panic that’s churning in his gut at this terrifying development. 

_A demon that can project itself to dozens of bodies? Can we really fight that? Can we actually hold them off long enough to make a difference?_

He takes a deep breath to maintain his control and stay shifted.  Beside him he can feel the energy practically radiating off of Stiles as he readies for the first attack.

_Well, we can sure as hell try._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for that chunk of info in the voicemail from stiles. It's the ever-constant battle of moving plot vs. dolling out info. Hope it wasn't too much to swallow at once :) As always, if there's a detail I didn't flesh out to your liking, feel free to comment or shoot me a message. I love talking headcanon :) 
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short; I know. I'm more interested in the aftermath, so you just get a teasing glimpse of the battle scene to give you some key points. Then we'll launch in to some lovely angsty dealing with the aftermath next chapter. (AKA if you hate cliffhangers, this one's worse than the last one, so maybe you should wait?)
> 
> Sorry I'm not sorry? Please don't hate me.

 

Fire and wind and lightening surround the battlefiled, the visilble reminder of the power being weilded by Stiles and Lydia; the duo's succeeded in holding back most of the demons and keeping the attacks staggered rather than allowing them to surge forward as one.  It's the only reason they weren't all dead within ten minutes.

Derek’s ears ring with the anguished cries of humans and animals as they fall around him.  He hopes to God that Stiles isn’t listening too closely because from the sounds of it his father’s among the fallen, but Scott’s trying to bring the older man in to safety as they begin to retreat to the center of the cemetery, near the mausoleum that holds the horn. Stiles and Lydia keep to the center of a ring the others are attempting to maintain in an attempt to protect them enough to allow focus on their powers.  

As a new wave rushes forward, Lydia’s voice pierces through the rest of the mayhem, “JACKSON!”

“I’ve got him! Danny assures her. “Don’t stop, Lydia!”

Derek manages a glance in their direction to see Danny guarding Jackson’s unmoving body.  He gave up the bow and arrow long ago, and he’s fighting now with a knife in each hand, slicing through the creatures that come at them with deft precision and force, but Derek sees one blow that Danny doesn’t. The bear’s claws catch him from behind, slicing up through the layers of body armor and ripping easily through the flesh.  Derek’s on the bear in the next instant, bringing it to the ground, but stopping it doesn’t change the fact that Danny’s just taken a nearly fatal blow.

“Bite,” Danny rasps out through gritted teeth.  “Now, Derek. Come on.”

Derek doesn’t think, just reacts. They’ve discussed this at length already.  Weeks ago Danny requested the bite once he graduated, to give himself the summer before college to acclimate.  It’s more than enough permission as far as Derek’s concerned. The bite might kill him, but these wounds _definitely_ will.  Derek just hopes it’s not too little too late.  He stays with Jackson and Danny, covering them as Isaac and Scott get pushed father to the middle with Lydia and Stiles. 

Through the haze of the battle, he slowly begins to realize just how badly they’re losing.  The dread sinks deep into his bones, but the fear that he really could lose his pack keeps the adrenaline pumping. 

_Can’t die yet. Not as long as there’s someone left to protect.  Can’t die yet._

********************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“We’re losing,” Lydia says to him. 

They’re standing back to back now on the steps of the mausoleum.  Isaac’s still up and fighting, still protecting Lydia and Stiles as much as he can as they continue to try and keep the remaining demons from closing in for the kill all at once.  Scott and Derek are trying to protect their wounded, but they’re pretty beat up themselves.  He wants to deny Lydia’s claim, but he knows she’s right.

“You’re exorcising them,” Stiles states; it took him too long to realize it, but he knows what it means.  “You drank, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t think I could afford not to,” she replies, “but it’s not enough.”

“I have an idea,” Stiles tells her.  “You trust me?”

“We don’t have time for you to be an idiot,” she snaps, finding his hand and clasping it tightly.  “Whatever it is, do it!”

"On three, exorcise them all,” he tells her.

“I don’t have the power for that.”

“I think I do.”

He doesn’t know what this could do to her.  He’s not even sure it can work.  Every other projection of his spark involves pushing the energy that hums in his own body into whatever force he wants to control. He’s never transferred it to a human and never tried to control demon powers, but he’s also never been this fucking desperate.  He takes a deep breath, tuning out the horrific sounds of death and violence surrounding them, and feels the energy begin to build.

“One,” he counts slowly.  “Two.”

_Oh, please, God, let this work._

“Three!”

The force of the energy and the exertion it takes has Stiles swaying where he stands. He hits the ground as his vision whites out. The last thing he knows before he loses all awareness is the sound of Lydia screaming his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I'll try to end your suspense in the next day or two? This weekend at the latest.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feast or famine it seems; to make up for last chapter, here, have a 6300-word one :)
> 
> no promises that there's not a cliffhanger here either. Ye be warned. 
> 
> Hoping to finish the Battle Born this weekend, but Easter craziness may prevent that. Within the week at the latest.

_WAKE UP._

The words flash across Stiles’ mind, invading the quiet nothingness and drawing him unwillingly towards consciousness.  He can feel the fatigue down to his bones, and he’s not sure he has the energy to open his eyes.  He takes a few moments more in limbo, realizing he’s no longer in the field, realizing he really is alive, and realizing gratefully that he can’t sense any injuries worse than some flesh wounds and weariness.  He slowly persuades his eyes to open.

“Stiles?” Lydia says, appearing over him and blocking out the small square of ceiling he saw previously.  “Can you hear me?” she asks worriedly when he doesn’t immediately reply.

 “Yeah.”

“Give him a sec, Lydia,” Isaac’s voice advises from somewhere to his left.  “Took him three days last time; three hours isn’t much compared to that.”

“I know, but—you’re okay, right?”

He forces a smile to try and get that worried look off her face.  She was so damn brave back there; she shouldn’t look this terrified now.

“Yeah. Did I hurt you?”

“No, it—it worked; it all worked.  I got them all, and not thirty seconds later the sun broke through the trees.  We did it. The seal didn’t break.”

He smiles genuinely at that.  “Good.”

“You can go back to sleep if you want,” Lydia tells him.  “I just—I’ve been trying to prod all of you awake if I can. 

“The others?” Stiles asks, turning his head to the left where Isaac’s voice came from earlier.

“Nah, being lazy,” Isaac replies, trying to keep the mood light; he can probably feel the worried hum of energy in Stiles.  “You know I’m the early bird of the pack.”

Isaac’s sitting against the far wall. He looks like hell.  Between him and Stiles, Derek, Scott, and Jackson lie unconscious on cots.  Stiles realizes now that they’re at Deaton’s vet clinic.  He notices how wounded the wolves all are and how the injuries don’t seem to be healing like they should.  He can see where someone—Deaton?—had to use stitches to piece them back together the traditional way. 

“They’ll be okay?”

“Eventually.”

“My dad? Danny?”

“They’re at the hospital,” Lydia replies.

“Are they—”

“Still in surgery last we heard.”

“I should get there.”

“You need rest, Stiles. You can’t even hold you head up.”

“Can too,” he replies stubbornly, lifting it off his cot to prove the point.  “Just need a minute.”

“Go back to sleep,” Lydia tells him.  “I shouldn’t have woken you. I was just scared after all that energy you gave me. I wasn’t sure what it did to you.”

Her voice breaks on the last words of the sentence, and the tears in her eyes well up and spill over.

“Don’t cry,” he says, willing his hand to use the strength it takes to move and find hers. “You were awesome, Lydia.  You’re the only reason we’re not all dead.”

“I’m fine,” she assures him, and he doesn’t call the lie in her heartbeat; no surprise there. He’s pretty sure none of them are ‘fine.’  “Sorry I just—”

“Had a helluva morning?” his teases with another smile.

“Yeah, guess you could say that.”

“Help me sit up,” he says.

“Maybe you shouldn’t—”

“If my dad’s in surgery, I need to—”

“You’re too weak for that.”

“Baby steps,” he persists. “Help me sit up.”

She obliges and his head swims with the shift but only for a moment.  Both she and Isaac watch him concernedly, but he doesn’t lose consciousness again.

“I’m okay.”

He looks down at his body, and for the first time becomes aware that he’s wearing just his boxers.  There’s six—no seven—wounds that he can see.  Each has been carefully stitched.  The most impressive is set of claw marks running across his chest from the swipe than had been _just_ shy of breaching organs.  

 “I would’ve had them take you to the hospital,” Lydia says, “but your spark kept manifesting in bursts. We couldn’t risk it.  It was bad enough that the Argents had to see the battle site and exactly how powerful we’ve gotten.”

“The Argents?”

“I—uh—I kind mind-controlled them to come help us?” Lydia says.  “I know Derek’s rule. Never trust hunters, but I was the only one still conscious.  There was no way I was getting us out of there before half the pack bled to death.”

“You mind-controlled a 9-1-1?”

“Yeah.”

“Lydia, you’re fucking brilliant.”

She smiles.  “Wish it had been someone besides hunters, but it’s Allison and Mr. Argent.  They’re not that bad.  We were desperate.”

“Stop apologizing for saving our asses,” Isaac says. 

“At least we’re alive to deal with whatever questions the Argents demand answers to.”

“We’re not going to ask that many,” Allison’s voice responds.  “Not now anyway. You’ve been through more than enough.”

It’s a sign of how weary they all are that no one heard her coming.  She’s holding a laundry basket full of clothes.

“It’s all my dad’s stuff,” she says, “It’s not going to fit very well, but none of you had clothes worth saving.  I threw some of my things in here for you, Lydia.”

“She asked how she could help,” Lydia adds in explanation.

“Thanks,” Stiles says as Allison fishes out a shirt and pair of pants for him. 

She hands Isaac and Lydia clothes too before she moves to sit in the vacant chair against the wall.

“We should’ve believed you,” Allison says quietly. “If we’d helped maybe…”  She lets the sentence trail off but her eyes are focused on Scott’s bloodied, unconscious form.  “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t do that,” Lydia tells her.  “You’re helping now. That’s something.”

“I just talked to my dad,” Allison says, changing the subject.  “Danny and the sheriff are still in surgery, but they should be out in the next hour or so.  He doesn’t know much more than that. They can only talk to family.”

“Why is your dad at the hospital?”  Stiles asks, trying to distract himself—and failing miserably—from thinking about his dad lying on an operating table as surgeons attempt to patch the damage he sustained because Stiles didn’t protect him well enough.

“In case Danny—”

The words and their implication have Stiles on his feet in an instant.

“He won’t hurt him!” Allison assures him quickly. “He’s just—Danny got the bite. Did you know that? We’re not sure if it’ll take or not, but if it does we thought someone should be there so he doesn’t hurt anyone.”

“Okay, seriously. I need to get to the hospital,” Stiles says yet again.  

He still feels the weight of his exhaustion, but he fights against it.  He has duties as a son and a second that need attention.  He’s not full strength, but he’s not unconscious anymore, which is more than he can say for most of the pack.  Even though he’s terrified of what kind of news might await him, he needs to be at that hospital.

“Isaac, I know you’re in pretty bad shape yourself, but—”

“I know they’re vulnerable,” he replies.  “I’ll protect them.”

“I’ll keep trying to wake them up,” Lydia adds. 

“Call me if there’s any change. I’ll let you know what’s going on once I get to the hospital.”

“I can give you a ride,” Allison offers.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Sam hates that they’re in Beacon Hills too late to be any real help.  Argent directs them to the field where the pack made its stand with a request that they clean up the evidence.  He’s fed the hospital and the authorities some story about finding the sheriff and the Mahealani kid that definitely didn’t involve the _actual_ truth.  Someone unearthing this bloodbath could cause some serious complications.

“I think it’s safe to say they’re a little more powerful than the last time we saw them,” Dean says as they walk into the clearing.

Dozens of bodies in various states of evisceration lie scattered across the cemetery.  The morbidly impressive carnage is over-shadowed only by the visible signs of fire and gale-force winds much too concentrated to be natural.  Looking at this, Sam can’t imagine how any of them managed to not only protect the horn long enough but also survive the fight.

“I can’t believe Cas sent them into this,” Sam says.  “You talked to him yet?”

“No.”

“You’d think they’d get a thank-you-miracle or two for their trouble,” Sam replies. “Heal the humans at least?”

“Angels are dicks, Sam. We’ve been over this.”

“Yeah, but not Cas as much.”

“He’s probably out-voted.  Uriel and the other hilarious angels of the garrison aren’t big on dolling out healing miracles in case you forgot.”

_Yeah, sure, the image of you lying in a hospital bed broken in every way possible while I demand Cas fix you just slipped my mind.  I know they’re dicks, I just—kind of keep hoping they prove me wrong one day._

“I’ll tell you another thing,” Dean says. “No way is the Stilinski kid is just a wielder.”

“What makes you say that?”

“It takes more than a little talent with some mountain ash to take down this many demons.”

_I know. It takes demon blood, and it takes more of it than Lydia has in her veins which means she’s drinking it._

“It was all one demon,” Sam reminds him, trying to deter Dean’s distrust.  “Stiles has had two years to practice. He’s damn powerful, but he’s still just a wielder. That’s all.”

“He’s dangerous.”

“He’s human.”

“Is he?”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam chastises. “He’s a good kid.  You know him. He’s a teenager. He helped save a seal. We’re not going to—”

“I’m not saying we gank him. I’m just saying the kid is fucking dangerous now. It’s true, and you know it.”

“Then it’s a good thing he’s on our side.”

"Yeah,” Dean mutters.

It’s clear Dean’s not done mulling over the issues with Stiles, but apparently he’s done talking about it. 

“We’ll make the pyre over there,” Dean directs, pointing to the northeast corner of the plot.  “Come on.”

_Come on, Dean. For once in your life don’t push it. Just be grateful the seal didn’t break, and call it a day._

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

His dad doesn’t look right lying there in the mess of tubes and wires surrounding the hospital bed.  He looks weak and worn and so fucking _fragile_ that Stiles can’t take it in.   This barely-living shell can’t be his dad.  It just can’t. 

Dad is somewhere laughing and joking or intimidating the shit out of some suspect in interrogation or at Minnie’s ordering a burger and asking Carrie not to rat him out.  He’s not this broken body Stiles can’t stand to see but can’t tear his eyes from.

Stiles feels eleven years old again—watching from the chair by a hospital bed as Mom fades away slowly until the real Mom was long gone before the body actually died. The pain of the memory hits him full force and combines with his anxiety in the present until he feels like he can hardly breathe.

“Stiles?” the doctor asks as he enters, and Stiles jumps to his feet.

“Yeah? Sorry I wasn’t here sooner. I came as quick as I could.”

“I’m sure you did,” the doctor replies with a kind smile.

“He’s going to be okay, right?” Stiles asks. “I mean, I know he’s really hurt, so of course it’s a long road to recover and all that, but he’s going to be fine.”

Stiles can read the answer in the doctor’s face even before he says, “The injuries were extensive, Stiles.  He had lacerations to almost every vital organ.  He was—there’s only so much we can fix, and the rest the body has to do for itself. When this much trauma happens at one time—” “

“No, but—there’s still a chance—there’s a chance, right? That he could—he could wake up—he could still—he could—he’ll be okay once he heals a little more and—”

“The machines are the only thing keeping him alive right now. He’s coded once already since he left surgery.  His heart can only take so much.  You should prepare yourself.”

“I should pre—” Stiles can’t even bring himself to repeat the phrase. “No. There has to be something. There’s _something_ you can do. He can’t die. You can’t let him die! Do something!”

“We’ve done all we can.  I’m very sorry.”

“Sorry? You’re fucking _sorry_?! WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MATTER IF—”

“Stiles!” Melissa McCall’s voice breaks through his fury as she bursts in the room.  “I told you to wait for me,” she tells the doctor angrily.

“Like it matters _who_ tells me my dad’s dying?” Stiles snaps.  “He’s still _dying._ ”

The words start to _truly_ sink in for the first time—the idea that the interchange before the fight was the last conversation he would ever have with his father, the realization that sweat and blood and pain were his father’s last memories, the understanding that he’s now managed to bring about the untimely death of _both_ his parents—and he can feel the hysteria building in his chest as it tightens to the point that breathing is nearly impossible.  He backs toward the wall, seeking support.  It registers vaguely that Ms. McCall catches him and orders the doctor out of the room. 

“Breathe, Stiles. It’s okay.”

_I can’t breathe. How the fuck do you expect me to breathe? He’s dying and it’s my fault. It’s my fault. It’s all my fault. First Mom now Dad and it’s my fucking fault. All of it. All my fault. It should be me in that bed, not him. I’m the one who did this. It’s my fault he was there. I’m the one that deserves this.  It’s all my fault._

“Shhh, honey, no it’s not. It’s not your fault,” Ms. McCall soothes, and he realizes he must be talking aloud.  “Your dad wanted to protect you. He never would’ve forgiven himself if he let you go out there to fight without him.  It’s not your fault.”

As he sobs into her shoulder, he can feel the hum as his magic tries to build in response to the distress, but he’s still too weak to wield or control it.  He tries to stifle it, but he’s panicking and grieving and still so fucking exhausted that he’s honestly thankful to just let the darkness claim him.

 

 ***********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Derek tries not to jostle Stiles awake as he helps Melissa McCall transfer him to the cot they’ve rolled into the sheriff’s room, but Stiles stirs just slightly.

“Just me,” Derek says. “Don’t wake up. Rest.”

“Danny is—” Stiles murmurs, exhaustion slurring his words.

“Still sedated, but he’s healing so well I think the bite’s taking.  He should be okay. I know Chris is here. He knows we take care of our own.  It’s all fine.”

“My dad,” Stiles mutters mournfully.

His eyes flutter open and meet Derek’s.  There’s so much anguish there it threatens to shatter Derek completely. He knows all too well just how little he can do to ease the ache this kind of grief brings. 

“I know,” Derek replies.  _And I would give anything to make this better._ “I’ll wake you if there’s any change. You need to sleep. Please?”

“Stay?” Stiles asks, hand moving to grab Derek’s arm.

“I’ll be here when you wake up; just sleep.”

 

********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“You have to eat something,” Derek insists. “Eight hours ago you were practically dead.  You have to take care of yourself whether you feel like it or not.”

“I told you I wasn’t fucking hungry, Derek,” Stiles snaps back.  “Leave me alone. Go check on Danny again.”

 “So help me God, if I have to call Lydia and get her to mind control you, you are going to eat the damn sandwich.”

Stiles glares as he snatches it from Derek’s outstretched hand.

“Fine,” he replies. 

“Fine.”

Derek sits next to Stiles on the cot, the spot he’s been occupying for the past two hours minus three runs to check on Danny and get coffee and the most recent trek to the cafeteria.  It’s killing him to see Stiles like this.  It kills him even more to know that nothing he can do will alleviate this kind of pain, but it doesn’t stop him from doing what he can to take care of Stiles. At the least, he can try and make sure Stiles heals physically, While it’s not much to combat the massive amount of emotional trauma, Derek can reassure Stiles that, even though he might be losing the last of his family, he’s damn sure not alone.  When Stiles opts to eat the sandwich with one hand in favor of putting the other back in Derek’s, he’s sure it’s a reassurance Stiles can use.

_I’m not much, but I’m better than nothing. I’m not going anywhere._

He knows without a doubt that Stiles is blaming himself for this, and he wishes he could make him understand how unwarranted that guilt is.  The blame of what happened to them falls to the demon who attacked and the angels who sent them into that bloodbath and couldn’t be bothered to show up for so much as a ‘nice job’ now that the battle’s finished.  He assigns some blame to the Winchesters and Bobby, who didn’t bother mentioning the apocalypse was nigh before they sent their angel buddy to recruit the pack for this suicide mission.  All in all, they knew the risks when they decided to act on the angel’s request; this just doesn’t seem like the thanks you should get for actually managing to survive your part in stopping the apocalypse.

“Thanks,” Stiles says quietly, between choking down bites of the sandwich.  “Sorry I was—”

“It’s really fine.”

“No, it’s not.  There’s a million other things you have to worry about right now: Danny, the rest of the pack, the fact that you’re just as beat to hell as the rest of us, the Argents knowing about Lydia.  You shouldn’t have to deal with—”

“Hey,” Derek interjects. “It’s _really_ fine, Stiles. Stop.”        

_You could be so much worse and I wouldn’t blame you for it. Your dad’s dying. You’re allowed to be sad or pissed or whatever the hell else you feel like being._

Stiles has at least recovered from the sobbing mess he was earlier, but he’s still struggling to keep the grief in check and his spark in control.  It’s clear he’s still exhausted, but he’s wont’ quit fighting sleep. 

Meanwhile, Derek’s frustration at feeling so helpless is building and combining with anger that he’s harboring at the demon and the angels and the whole fucking universe to the point that he’s going crazy trying to keep it bottled up. He knows he needs to shift and run or maybe fight it out with a punching bag or five.  Being cooped up in this hospital room isn’t help either of them, but Stiles won’t leave so Derek can’t escape it for long either.

Faintly, Derek picks up the rumble of the impala engine coupled with Ramble On playing on the radio.  There’s no doubting who’s arrived.He assumes they’re here to speak with Argent, but when two pairs of boots come to a halt outside the sheriff’s room, he rises to his feet.  The fury boiling in his veins, predictably decides on an outlet when he opens the door and lays eyes on Dean Winchester.

“Give me _one_ good reason why I shouldn’t kill you _right fucking now_ ,” Derek snarls, shoving Dean back.  “Just ONE!”

“What the fuck? What’s—”

“We got here as soon as we could,” Sam says apologetically, and Derek glares at him.  “I’m sorry we—”

"That’s not what he’s talking about,” Stiles snaps, and Derek’s surprised to see the hostility that’s temporarily replaced the quiet misery in Stiles’ eyes. “He means the fact that your asshole of a big brother—who’s supposed to be fucking _dead_ anyway—sent this angel for us in the first place!”

“What the hell are you talking about? I didn’t—”

"Castiel said _you_ were the one who believed we could handle this,” Derek elaborates.

“Does it _look_ like we handled this shit?! Does it?!” Stiles demands. “THEY _FUCKING RIPPED US APART_!”

Derek sees Dean slowly move to put a hand on his gun; if they were anywhere else, Derek would shift and take the hunter’s arm off on principle alone. 

“Stiles,” Derek warns instead, putting a hand on Stiles’ shoulder and pulling him back into the room; he shifts his body slightly to stand between Stiles and Dean.

It takes Stiles just a moment to understand Derek’s move and realize that Dean’s hand rests on his gun.  He smiles without mirth.

“Gonna shoot me, Dean?” Stiles taunts.  “Really?”

"Come on, kid, don’t—you’ve had a rough day, don’t do anything stupid that—”

“A _rough day_?” Stiles huffs back. “We got _butchered_.”

“You saved the seal,” Sam reminds him, apparently trying to point out the silver lining. 

It takes all Derek’s control not to punch the idiot in the face for saying something so stupid.

“Yeah, and not so much as a pat on the back from this Castiel motherfucker who threw us into this in the first place,” Derek retorts. 

“My dad is _dying,_ and you think I give a shit about the seal?”

“I just meant—”

“Just shut the hell up, Winchester.  What the fuck are you doing here anyway? Argent is your hunter presence here. Danny won’t wake for another hour or two at least.”

Dean’s eyes dart to Stiles.

“We’re not here about Danny. We—”

“You’re afraid of Mowgli now?” Stiles scoffs.  “Surely not.”

“Look, we saw the cemetery.  It takes a lot of juice to pull something like that, and before we leave town we’re making damn sure that nothing else is going on with your pack.”

“What’s going on in my pack is none of your goddamn business.  You so much as lay a hand on him—on any of them—and I will—”

“We won’t,” Sam promises, still clearly trying to dial the hostilities down a notch. “We’re not here to start anything; Dean just wants to get all the facts straight before we leave.  You’ve had enough trouble. We don’t want to add to it.”  He looks pointedly at his brother.  “Right, Dean?”

“Sure,” Dean replies, clearly just appeasing Sam. 

“Sorry we bothered you, okay? Let’s just—we’re going to go talk to Argent.  The rest can wait; you’ve got more important things to worry about than fighting with us.”   

Sam’s right. They do have more important things to deal with than fighting, but Derek still wants more than anything to take a swing at Dean Winchester.  He wants to fight. He wants the adrenaline to surge up again as he loses himself to his wolf instincts and for just a few minutes avoid dealing with any of the pain and suffering that’s invaded their lives and begun radiating through all the pack bonds. 

But that’s too easy an out, and he has the whole pack to think about.  He grits his teeth and forces himself to settle for slamming the door in the hunters’ faces. 

           

 ************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“What the hell was that?” Dean asks in a hushed whisper that Sam knows won’t remotely prevent Stiles and Derek from hearing them.

“The sheriff’s dying and their pack is maimed. You expect them to be agreeable right now? _Especially_ after you threaten Stiles?”

“I didn’t threaten—”

“Come on, reaching for your gun?  In front of an alpha trying to protect a wounded beta?  Just be glad he didn’t claw your face off and let Stiles set you on fire.”

“So you admit the kid is dangerous.”

“ _Oh my God, Dean_ , we’ve had this conversation a million times. _Powerful._   He’s _powerful_ , but it doesn’t make him _dangerous_. It doesn’t make him a threat.”

“You don’t know that. We haven’t been around this pack in a long time. We don’t know what’s changed with them.  I told you; I’m not leaving until I’m damn sure the kid’s really got control of it.”

“Then go talk to Argent.  That’s stop one. Find out how Stiles has been.  You know he’s been keeping a watch on it.”

“What’re you going to do?”

“Stay here; keep an eye on them.”  Dean doesn’t like the idea, but Sam needs his brother gone so he can talk to Derek and Stiles.  “Come on. I’ll be fine.  They like me, remember? You’re the one they generally want to maul.”

“Shut up.”

“Go talk to Argent.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be here.”

As soon as Dean disappears down the hall, Sam knocks softly on the door.

“I need to talk to y’all.”

“Fuck off,” Derek repliess simply, not opening the door.

“About Lydia,” Sam adds.

Derek opens the door slowly, scowling suspiciously.  It’s only years of hunting experience that keep Sam from taking a couple steps back from the blazing glare. 

“What about her?”

“We both know those demon didn’t go down only because of Stiles’ spark. Dean doesn’t know about her powers or what I’m doing with mine. I’d like to keep it that way.  I need to talk to you, and this may the only second I get without him around.”

“Fine,” Derek replies. “Gun on the table when you walk in the door. _Slowly._ ”

“Sure,” Sam agrees.

Derek moves aside, and Sam does as asked.  He tries not to gawk at the sight of the sheriff.  It doesn’t take a doctor to see why there’s no prognosis in which they expect the man to live.

_Damn it, Cas._

“So Dean’s not dead anymore,” Stiles says tersely. “Congrats on that.”

“Lydia’s been working on her abilities?” Sam supposes, ignoring the comment; both Derek and Stiles nod. “She doing okay with them? I told her she could ask me questions if she—”

“She does fine on her own,” Derek interrupts. “She didn’t need to call you.”

“Because she really didn’t need to or because you told her not to?”

“I advised her to exercise caution, and she did; she’s smart enough to figure this out on her own.”

“How long has she been drinking demon blood?”

Derek pauses, hesitant to answer.  Sam doesn’t have the time or patience for slow responses so he just launches into his speech.

"Because I can understand why she would. Hell, you’d all be dead if she hadn’t, but she can’t use it day-to-day.  It’s too potent. I told her that, but I didn’t think she’d go down that road in the first place.  It’s ten times worse than the worst possible drug addiction you can imagine. If she gets dependent on it, it’s going to become a weakness. It’s not—”

“This is the first time she’s done it,” Stiles interjects. “She’s not addicted.”

“Watch her. Make sure it stays that way.”

“Sam, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Can’t lie to a werewolf, you moron,” Derek reminds him.  “You’re hooked, aren’t you? But you haven’t had a fix in a while.”

He wonders but doesn’t ask how Derek knows the signs of his withdrawal so quickly when not even Dean’s picked up on it yet.  The update of the werewolf file after this just might have to include how effective alcohol and drugs are with their expedited metabolism.

“Dean doesn’t know,” Sam tells them again. “He knows I had the powers; he’s seen me exorcise a demon or two, but he’s go now idea how broad the range really is or how much focus I give it.  He sure as hell doesn’t know about the demon blood.  I know you’re pissed at us, and I get that.  We should have told you what was going on with the seals. We should’ve communicated a lot of things—to be fair that’s a two-way street—but we didn’t.  Be pissed all you want, but I’m asking you not to tell him about any of it. _Please._ ”

“And you won’t tell Dean or Argent what really happened with the demons,” Derek assumes, and Sam nods affirmation.

“They’re attributing it all to Stiles’ spark, and I don’t plan to correct them.  It’ll being some more heat to you maybe,” he tells Stiles. “You’ve seen Dean already.  He and Argent are both a little freaked.”

“It hasn’t entirely escaped us that Chris guards Danny’s room _and_ this one.”

“I’ll try to remind them it’s just the natural progression of your powers, nothing to be worried about.”

“Good.”

There’s a moment of two of awkward silence before Sam breaks it.

“On a different note,” Sam says, “and at the slight risk of getting punched in the face, could you explain what you meant by Dean telling Cas to recruit the pack? Because we’ve got no idea what—”

“When he came and told me what to do, I asked ‘why me’,” Stiles elaborates, “and he said because we were conveniently located, because the angels couldn’t do it, and because Dean Winchester seemed to think we could.”

“We don’t talk about your pack,” Sam replies, “not to anyone but Bobby. Ever.”  When they don’t seem moved by the words he points out, “I can’t lie to you. You said it yourself.  If Castiel got some kind of recommendation from us, it’s because he’s seen the journal or something.  Maybe he’s gotten Dean’s memories if he can get in his dreams? I’m not sure, but we _did not_ tell them to come and drag you into this shit storm.  That’s one reason we didn’t bother telling you or Argent about the seals before this.  It’s a war, and there’re heavy casualties. We’re trying to keep as many people clear as we can.  We wouldn’t have thrown you to the wolves like that.”

There’s a moment of pause before a snort of laughter escapes Stiles. “Sorry, but seriously, Sam? ‘Thrown to the wolves’? Of _all_ the analogies in the English language you pick—”

"Shut up,” Sam mutters, unable to stop his smile as some of the tension disperses. 

He can’t help but appreciate the momentary grin on Stiles’ face.  It’s a hint of the kid Sam met two years ago underneath all the growing up Stiles has done since. Apparently Derek can’t help admiring it either, and if Sam didn’t know better he’d say that was a smile playing at Derek’s lips too.  One thing’s for sure, the look Derek’s giving Stiles has nothing to do with the bond between an alpha and his second. 

 _Did I miss something here?_ Sam wonders, knowing now isn’t the time or place to find out.  It’s none of his damn business anyway really, and God knows if Dean found out there’d be a whole new mountain of bullshit to sift through before they could leave town.  He’s surprised how fervently he hopes whatever’s going on between Derek and Stiles is a good thing that lasts. They both deserve that. 

 

*************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Dad codes again just minutes after they get the news that Danny’s awake.  They shove Stiles out of the room as they rush in, crowding around his father’s body trying not to disturb all the instruments attempting to keep him alive.  Stiles is sure he’s going to puke as his chest and gut seize with anxiety.  He’s holding on to the doorframe for dear life, barely keeping what feels like his millionth panic attack at bay, but when they charge for the third time and don’t get him back, he loses it.  He feels Derek’s strong grip keep him on his feet and brace him against the wall as his knees give way, and Stiles is grateful he’s back so quickly.  Though after a moment or two more, he realizes it’s not Derek  that’s here urging him to breathe.

“Breathe,” Dean’s gruff voice orders.  “In and out, got it? Don’t pass out on me.  Fucking _breathe_ , and _stifle the spark_ , kid.  You’re building a damn whirlwind in the nurses’ station.  Get a handle on it before you hurt somebody.”

_Fuck you and your paranoia, you asshole. My dad is fucking dy—_

_"_ Hear that? Hear it? They got him back.  Listen. You hear it? They got him back.”

The steady chirp of the heart monitor confirms Dean’s words.  Stiles regains enough focus to quiet the wind down the hall.  Slowly but surely his breathing betters from painful gasps to shallow breaths.  He’s still shaking, but that’ll lessen soon enough too.

“Jeez, Mowgli, gimmee a heart attack why doncha?” Dean mutters, running a hand down his face.

As much as Stiles loves to hate Dean Winchester, he has to recognize that Dean’s first reaction was to calm him down, not reach for his gun.  Of course Dean thinks he’s dangerous; honestly, Stiles is. Yeah, Dean would kill Stiles if he thought he had to, but he doesn’t _want_ to. 

“I’m not that out of control,” Stiles informs Dean, grateful for Dean’s help staying calm but still annoyed at the hunter’s overreaction. “I won’t lose control enough to hurt people.”

"You wouldn’t mean to but—”

“ _I. won’t. hurt. people_ ” Stiles repeats, emphasis on every word.  “I’ve been working on this ceaselessly for two years. Stop being such a _hunter_ and be an ally like you used to be long enough to give me some credit.  You’ve seen our pack work.  We make sure we don’t endanger humans.  Don’t just assume I’m going to lose my shit and take down the town I just saved—and not for the first time I might add.”

"You were—”

“Rustling some papers. It’s not the end of the world.  If I couldn’t keep minimum control, I wouldn’t be here,” Stiles lies; he’d be here with his dad no matter who tried to stop him, but Dean can’t hear the falsity in the claim so he continues, “even if I wanted to be, the pack wouldn’t let me if it was too dangerous.”

And because he’s Stiles and annoying assholes is one of his favorite pastimes he adds, “And hey, just because you’re jealous of my super fucking awesome spark powers doesn’t mean—”

“I am not _jealous_ of your spark powers,” Dean replies indignantly.

“Scared of them then.”

“ _Hell_ no, I’m not scared of—”

“Could’ve fooled me, just sayin’.  Reaching for your gun earlier. Freaking out in here and getting spooked by a little gust of wind down the hall.  Some people might take that to mean you were scared. It’s okay, Dean. You can’t be a big, bad hunter all the time.  Be a real man, and let that vulnerable side show.”

“You are such a little shit,” Dean grumbles.

“Stiles?” Derek calls worriedly as he rounds the corner at a near sprint, glaring when he sees Dean.

“I’m fine. It’s okay. Dad coded, but he’s not—they got him back.”

_This time._

***************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

It’s hours later, Derek’s gone upstairs to sneak into Danny’s room and take advantage of the time without his parents to figure out how fully the bite took hold and where Danny’s at with his control.  Stiles wants to be there, helping, but his Dad’s already coded three times today.  There’s no way he can leave him, no matter how useless he feels just sitting here. He lies miserably on the cot in the corner, dozing because despite his exhaustion he still can’t really sleep.

“Cas, come on. This is getting ridiculous.”

Stiles jumps at the sound of Dean’s voice.  It’s quiet, barely audible to Stiles so he doubts anyone out in the hall can hear it.

“You ask them to do this _impossible_ shit. It’s a fucking miracle they even survived.   Then you don’t have the _decency_ to even bother showing up when they _actually stop the demon?_ What the hell, man? They did what you asked even though you had no right to ask it.  They put their lives on the line to save that damn seal. They deserve better than this bullshit. 

You want to know why the angels are losing? Huh? Maybe it’s because you treat your soldiers like shit. You want all this blind obedience at the drop of a hat and then you stand by, watching while your people get torn apart. I swear if you’re holding out on them because that asshat Uriel—”

“Dean,” a scolding voice replies.

“About damn time! I’ve been calling you since we left Minnesota! Where the _hell_ have you—”

“I don’t have much time.  There are others matters of import that require my attention.”

“Dude, it doesn’t take much time. Just get to healing.  It’ll take you two seconds tops.”

_Can he really do that? Can he fix Dad?_

“It’s not that simple.”

“Come on; can’t it be simple just _once_? Sure, I think your whole talk about not interfering with me and Sam is bullshit, but I kind of get it. Chuck’s getting visions of us.  The angels are paying attention. Maybe there are rules you don’t want to break in plain sight. That’s still bullshit, but I can understand it.  This is different.  You can’t tell me any angel out there gives a damn about Beacon Hills now that the seal is fine.  Heaven’s too short-handed to worry about this. No one’s looking at these kids but you, and only because I called you until I was fucking blue in the face.”

“I can’t. I don’t understand why does the fate of this little pack affects you so much. What significance do they play in your—”

“The kid’s lost one parent already.  He’s been mauled, shot, possessed, and then mauled some more; now, on top of all that, he’s watching his dad die, and he _hasn’t even graduated high school._ That’s fucked up, Cas, and you know it. They did good; they deserve better than this.  You _have_ to see that. You know that the system’s flawed or you wouldn’t have helped me with Sam.”

“Dean—”

“Come on, Cas, do this. Because—just—‘cause, okay? Please.”   

 _Please_ Stiles echoes. _Please, please, please, please, please._

           

 

 

           

           

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm not sorry for another cliffhanger-ish ending *laughs quietly in what could be considered a slightly diabolical tone*
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay in posting! I ripped my cornea :( so that threw a monkey wrench into posting plans. All better now though, so here ya go :)

“Where’s Jackson?” Derek asks when Lydia shows up for pack dinner—the first since the battle for the seal—on her own. “Danny said he was coming with you?”

“He’s not coming.”

“What?”

“What part of ‘he’s not coming’ was unclear?” Lydia asks irritably. “He had a prior engagement.”

“What prior engagement?”

“He’s throwing himself one hell of a pity party so he’s not coming.”

“Like hell he’s not,” Derek mutters, grabbing his keys.

The trauma Jackson suffered to his spine would have paralyzed a human for a year or more. He’s got the benefit of werewolf healing _if_ he can suck up his pride and start physical therapy.  Lydia’s right; he’s been sulking.  Derek remembers all too well the fear and anxiety in Jackson’s voice when he woke to the horrifying realization that he couldn’t move his legs; he can’t imagine enduring the same.  Nevertheless, Jackson’s adjustment time has passed. It’s not the end of the world; he’s alive, and that’s more than any of them really had a right to expect going into that clearing a week ago.  He’s got a whole pack to back him up while he heals—Deaton even says he’ll be able to walk across the stage by graduation if he works hard enough—so Jackson’s going to have to find a way to suck it up.

“I’ll come with you,” Danny offers.

“No, it’s too close to your first full moon for you to be getting in arguments,” Derek replies. “Isaac?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll go,” Isaac calls from the kitchen.  “Danny, can you keep an eye on the spaghetti?”

“Got it.”

“We’ll be back soon,” Derek tells them, giving Lydia what he hopes it a reassuring smile. 

She’s been strong as she deals with all this shit, as per usual. Derek catches Stiles’ eye across the den. _Check on her while we’re gone?_ Stiles gives a nod that says they’re on the same page, and Derek heads out the door with Isaac a step behind him.  He hopes it's just worrying about Jackson that's had Lydia wound so tightly lately, but he's scared there's more to it than that.  

           

****************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

"So Jackson hasn’t made much improvement on the attitude front?” Stiles asks.

“No. He’s still being an ass, but I told him if he doesn’t start trying by the end of the week I’m throwing him into the pool; then he can either stop moping or drown,” she informs Stiles as she flounces to the nearest couch and sinks into it with an exasperated sigh.

He debates a moment whether to follow her lead and keep the tone snarky and light.  He decides against it because she’s biting her nails, and Lydia ruining a perfectly good manicure is a sure sign of trouble.  He throws his arm around her shoulders as he plops down next to her on the sofa.

“He’ll come around.  He just needs some time to process everything.”

“It’s been a week, Stiles. He hasn’t so much as attempted to wiggle his toes, and if he doesn’t try then he’s not going to—”

“He’ll get there,” he insists. “If the rest of us have to drag him out of that chair kicking and screaming, we’ll get him better.  It’ll be okay.”

Stiles feels like the words seem too empty, but he really does believe Jackson’s too damn competitive to stay down long. He’ll be okay once he figures out how to channel his current angst and anger into determination to get out of the damn wheelchair. It won’t be easy, but Jackson’ll be just fine in the end.  It could be a lot worse.    

So much time passes before Lydia responds that Stiles thinks she won’t.  He’s reaching for the remote to turn up the television and drown some of the silence when she quietly admits, “I hope you’re right.”

This is the Lydia Martin he hates to see but is nevertheless _so glad_ he knows now.  Being in the pack with Lydia has given him more and more glimpses of the terrified teenager that hides under her badass glamour—when she’s not busy trying to kick his ass in training that is.   Their powers complement one another, and it’s nice to have someone who more or less _gets_ how abilities like theirs—ones that aren’t just instinctual or physical—work. Somewhere along the way their practical conversations about training techniques turned into talks between confidants with Lydia momentarily dropping her mask of aloofness and Stiles temporarily squashing the sarcastic defenses.   Their steadily strengthening friendship has helped a lot as they dealt with all the aftermath of the fight this past week.

“Jackson’s handled worse; you know that better than anybody,” he reminds her.

“Yeah, but the hits just keep on coming,” she points out dejectedly.

"At least we’re learning to roll with the punches?”

“We better be.  The fucking apocalypse is coming so—”

“Maybe not. They might stop it.”

“If the _angels_ need _our_ help I’m not exactly betting the odds are in our favor.”

“The odds are getting better though. We’re—”

“Not the vulnerable pack we used to be,” she finishes. “Everyone keeps saying that.   Maybe not, but we’re not invincible either.  We can still get hurt. We can still die. It’s not ever going to stop either,  which means we can’t ever stop.  We’re never really going to be safe enough or strong enough or prepared enough.  Whatever we do, it’s _never_ going to be enough.”

She’s quiet again, looking out the window as she goes back to chewing at her nails.  Stiles can’t figure out exactly what spawned such a dismal outburst—sure the Jackson deal is stressful as hell, but he can’t help but wonder, “Is there something else worrying you?  Besides Jackson?”

She shakes her head no.

“Then say it out loud.”

“Don’t do that lie detector crap to me,” she snaps. “Don’t.”

“Whatever it is I want to—”

“ _Please_ , just don’t.”

“Lydia—”

 “I can handle it.”

There’s no lie in the claim, so he lets it go as she asks. It’s going to weigh on his mind all the same.      

“Come on,” she suggests, mustering her usual energy again as she grabs his arm to drag him up from the couch. “Let’s see if we can help out in the kitchen so everything’s ready by the time they get back with Jackson.”

 

************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

After being informed his options were to roll the chair to the car on his own or be carried bodily from the house, Jackson acquiesced and came with them of his own volition.  It doesn’t stop him from pouting and bitching practically the entire way to the pack house though, and Derek’s starting to wonder how terrible an alpha he’d be for strangling a wounded beta. Lydia wasn’t kidding when she claimed he was throwing one hell of a pity party today.

“You built a ramp?” Jackson asks as they drive up, taking in the sight of the simple plywood ramp Derek covered the stairs with a couple of days ago.  It’s the first sentence out of his mouth that hasn’t been laced with angst or venom.

_What did you expect? You’re hurt. We’re trying to make this as easy on you as we can, but you gotta meet us halfway, you jackass._

“Yeah,” Isaac replies.  “Were you planning to levitate up the front steps for dinners and training or what?”

"I can’t train if I can’t even move my—”

“What did I say?” Derek demands, annoyed that the whining is back and the lecture he gave at the Whittlemores’ apparently needs reiterating. “You’re a part of this pack. Legs or not.”

“Yeah, but—”

“This pack trains three times a week, and that includes you,” Derek adds.  “You do whatever you can at training until you’re better.  You’re expected at every pack dinner just like always.  Being injured doesn’t give you a free pass from your responsibilities to your pack.”

“I’m not trying to—”

“Then start thinking about the fact that what happens to you and the way you handle it affects more people than just you.  Be scared, but we’ve got your back. Be pissed; that’s understandable. You can channel both those emotions into something useful.  _Don’t_ be selfish; that’s not going to do anything but make this worse.”

Jackson doesn’t reply. Isaac’s working hard to hide a smile.  Derek just hopes the idea sank in this time.

 

************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Derek will never admit to anyone just how much pack dinners really matter to him.  They remind him a lot of all the family dinners he detested so much as a teenager but longs for now. He can’t quite explain it, but somehow if he can manage to get them all here around the table, together and safe if just for the moment, it’s a sign that things are okay—a sign that he’s not fucking anything up _too_ badly.  It’s a reassurance he needs more than he can say. 

When he takes his seat beside Stiles at the table, he scans the room as he always does, trying to relish everything going on without being noticed.  There’s just one vacant chair down at the end next to Melissa McCall sullying the moment. As soon as his eyes rest there, he looks to Stiles to find he’s been tracking Derek’s gaze.

“Stiles, we could—” Derek begins.

“Nah, he got caught up with some paperwork as he was leaving the station,” Stiles replies, guessing where the question was headed. “He said not to wait on him. Everybody dig in.”

Though his voice is steady enough, Stiles eyes go back to the empty chair and his hand finds Derek’s and holding it tightly and breathing in deep to stave off the threatening panic attack.  They all know exactly how close they came to having a permanent void there.  The mere thought of it has sent Stiles into hysterics more than once since his father awoke. 

 Another thing Derek will never admit is that he prays thanks to Castiel whenever he remembers. He’ll be forever grateful that, after everything everyone in this pack has been through the past week, the angel spared them this one tragedy at least.  He knows it wasn’t meant to be such a happy ending—the angel himself forbid them speak of it and ensured that no one at the hospital would even remember the sheriff’s presence there—and he’s damn thankful for whatever pushed Castiel to have some  mercy on this mongrel pack.  From what Stiles has told him, he owes Dean Winchester a lot more credit than he’d care to give.

 

*******************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Heard anything out of Cas?” Sam asks.

They’re somewhere in Colorado eating crappy Chinese take-out and knocking back a few six-packs after _finally_ completing a nice, simple salt and burn like they’d been looking for a week ago.

“No,” Dean replies through a mouth full of rice. “Not that I was expecting to,” he adds once he swallows.

“What happens if they find out what he did for the sheriff?”

“They won’t.”

“I’m just saying,” Sam persists. “First the thing with Lilith, now this, they’re not going to like him working with us.”

“What was I supposed to do? The kid’s dad was dying, Sam. I had to at least ask—”

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t have,” Sam clarifies hastily. “I’m glad you did. You were right; Stiles didn’t deserve to lose his father like that.  I’m just saying I hope Cas doesn’t pay the price for it—for granting us the favor I mean.”

_Well, granting you the favor,_ Sam corrects mentally.

“If many more seals break, none of this really matters anyway,” Dean grumbles.

“We’re doing what we can with our limited numbers,” Castiel informs them, appearing across the room by the door and thoroughly startling them both. 

“Dammit, Cas!” Dean curses, hurriedly righting the beer he knocked over as he reached for his gun.  “Would it kill you to give a little warning?”

"Apologies,” Cas replies with a tone as close to human annoyance as he gets. 

“We’re not going to lose.  That won’t happen,” Sam insists. _I’m going to kill Lilith in time._ “We’ll stop the last seals. We’ll figure out a way.”

“Sam is right. We cannot give up the fight just yet.  Though our numbers are limited, if we explore more opportunities to utilize strategic allies such as the Hale Pack we could—”

“No,” Dean and Sam interrupt in unison.

“They were successful and willing to be of assistance,” Castiel reminds them.  “We won’t have the luxury of ignoring such an asset should the battle for the seals continue to lean so strongly in hell’s favor.”

“I still don’t understand why the angels have to resort to using humans and werewolves and whatever else you can scrounge up.  Aren’t there whole garrisons of you just waiting for orders? Why the hell does this battle seem so fucking one-sided?”

“We’re doing all we can,” Castiel replies, though he looks troubled by the question.

“You sure there’s not something else wrong, Cas?” Sam pushes. “We already know there were angels working against—”

“We’re doing all we can,” Castiel repeats more harshly, “and if that means we have to ask great sacrifices of—”

“No, Cas,” Dean interrupts again, less anger and more pleading in his voice this time.  Sam knows Cas can see the tiredness showing through Dean’s bravado as well as he can.  “Those kids are not getting dragged back into this shit with us. The apocalypse happens or it doesn’t, whatever. They’re not going through the meat-grinder for us again.  Those kids are going to fucking graduate high school and go to college and live normal, apple pie, weirdo werewolf lives. Got it?”

Castiel hesitates for just a moment before giving a slight nod. 

“Perhaps you have a point.”

“Damn right I do.”

“I’m needed back with the garrison; other seals are in peril.” He looks momentarily to Sam.  “I appreciate your concern, Sam.  I assure you I can take care of myself.”

In the next moment he’s gone, leaving the brothers alone once again.

“Crazy isn’t it?” Sam can’t help pointing out. “Two years ago you pretty much wanted that pack dead.  Now you’re defending them to an angel.”

“Two years ago, life was a lot less complicated,” Dean replies moodily, reaching for the whiskey instead of his beer.

_It’s going to be okay, Dean. It's all going to be okay.  I won’t let us lose, and I won’t let the angels push the responsibility of the last seal on you. I can do it; you won’t have to.  You’ll see.  I can do this._

_  
_

           

           

           

 

             

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a side note: This is meant to be set between Jump the Shark and The Rapture as previous chapters indicated. My head canon is that Cas' response to Dean's request coupled with helping in the Sam/Lilith debacle before are what spurred his superiors to bring him in for the reprogramming that happens during The Rapture.
> 
> Thanks again for reading! I hope you enjoyed this installment!!
> 
> A special shout-out to all y'all who have given feedback throughout the story!!! 
> 
> Stay tuned for part 6! It's in the works but no estimated delivery date yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again for reading! Y'all ROCK! :) 
> 
>  
> 
> If you haven't and ever care to, you can find me over at packdontendwithblood.tumblr.com or email me at arebutvagueshadows@gmail.com


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